That night I was at a glitzy party downtown. I won’t say “you know the type,” because you don’t know the type. The location was a sprawling palace concealed behind rows of ordinary commercial and residential buildings on all sides, as though the city itself conspired to mask the architecture of power behind a facade of pious civic virtue. The attendees were drawn from the city’s ancient aristocratic lines, long and haughty, some fossilized, some wildly decadent. Wealth alone granted no access here; new men could expect no welcome, only scorn and loathing.

So what was I doing there, new in town and with nothing to recommend me? I had an invitation, of course.

I wasn’t the only outsider. The thick of the crowd was packed with local celebrities, club owners, fixers, and all manner of bright and beautiful creatures. Whores and pimps floated through the rooms with the ease of regulars. In other words, jesters and pets -- the court’s official amusements.

Past midnight, I was cutting through the colorful throng on the palace floors, the high naves above ringing with laughter and the sharp clink of glasses. Here and there I spotted a familiar figure. For although I was new in town, I knew quite a few of the revelers at the party. I’d represented their business and legal interests in a coastal city down south -- one whose name the rich never bother to learn, for the bleakness of its smokestacks and ash-gray waterfront. Still, that’s where their fortunes are minted, and they need men like me to guard the machinery that feeds them.

Others were countrymen who had surely been invited for the same reason I had: recognition of services rendered. That was the flattering version, at least. I wasn’t naive. My kind weren’t summoned to be honored -- we were summoned to be reminded whom we served.

But I wasn’t there to study the twisted dynamics of power, over which I had no claim. I was there for the party -- just like everyone else around me. And the party sensed that. In slow ebbs and sudden surges, it swelled around us and drew us under.

By two, the music roared. Sparkling-wine glasses flew faster from hand to hand, the disco globes spun at dizzying speed, and tinsel confetti fell in blinding silver sheets.

The palace had transformed. The glittering halls gave way to something else -- an pulse you could feel in your bones, the walls vibrating with a bass that made the chandeliers tremble. The crowd had spilled beyond all reason: laughter became roars, heels became stomps, glasses became improvised percussion.

Faces flickered past me -- some familiar, some grotesque, some impossibly beautiful. Bodies pressed and slid, brushing, colliding, teasing. Hands found and released one another. Perfume and sweat tangled in heavy, intoxicating waves.

Eyes gleamed with hunger and desire: a storm with no map, no rules -- only a relentless, radiant, carnivorous energy.

The disco floor came alive. Dancers spun, turned, twirled, their bodies shaking and undulating in sync with the relentless bass. Arms flailed, shoulders arched and rolled, hips thrashed and dipped, pelvises gyrated with reckless abandon -- a thousand movements colliding in perfect chaos. Hands grazed bare skin sliding along ribs, shoulders, the smalls of backs before slipping away again; hair whipped and clung; sweat glistened and flew around.

Stroboscopic lights flashed over the throbbing mass of bodies. A spectacle of skin and flash indeed it was. Whatever clothes covered the dancers were meant to attract the gaze, not to shield from it. Short dresses that clung and lifted with every turn, strapless tops rode high on curves, sheer blouses molded to the damp skin beneath. Mini and micro skirts teased with each twist of hip. Silk, chiffon, lace, gossamer wrapped around the dancers, leaving nothing unseen, nothing secret.

Breasts rose and fell in hypnotic rhythm to the music pounding from above. Necklines slipped; straps slid; breasts popped. Exposed midriffs dipped; navel pendants swung. Skirts and shorts rode higher. Bodies shone with shimmering powders.

Clothing grew scarcer with each passing hour. Tops sagged at the waist or vanished altogether. Breasts now bare and slick with sweat swayed wildly in the electric air; their pierced nipples flashing like stars in the gloom. Boys pressed close; shoulders brushed, and hands traced the curve of moving bodies.

The party had not turned into an orgy, at least not an open one. But in the dark corners, down narrow corridors, behind draped archways and half-closed doors, mouths met, hands roamed, clothes slipped away. You could have been blind and still could not have missed it.

Sensuality hung thick in the air; it was everywhere, unavoidable. Like a force field, its strength shifted from place to place, but wherever you went, it followed and pulled you back. Its reach didn’t stop at the palace walls, nor did it end at dawn. The entire city seemed caught in a permanent state of arousal, its people known for their unabashed openness, their easy flirtations, their licentious nature. Had I walked into any other nightclub that night -- and by then the palace was nothing but an enormous nightclub -- I would have seen much of the same. Even outside, the sidewalks and alleys of the party districts, disgorged with revelers, would have shown no greater restraint. In truth, no neighborhood, at any hour of the day or in any season, would have struck a traveler as particularly reserved.